Lost and Found
by strumpetforhire
Summary: Boston, 1947. Woodrow Hoyt, Private Investigator, has been hired to find a missing heiress. Her name: Jordan Cavanaugh. But why did she run? And, more importantly, will he be able to make her stop? JW,alternate universe
1. A Burial Deferred

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Crossing Jordan or any of the characters contained therein. If I did, Woody and Dr. Macy would be plagued with a series of unfortunate accidents causing them to lose their wardrobes. Ah, well. A girl can dream, can't she?

A/N: Well, here it is, my long-delayed attempt at another Crossing Jordan story. I had originally planned an entirely different story, but it didn't seem to want to be written. I then started another story, but this one came to me demanding to be written. Essentially, I've taken the characters and a few basic elements of the show and transplanted them back about sixty years, mixing in a bit of The Big Sleep and the musical City of Angels for good measure (I don't own them, either). I'm sorry if it seems confusing at first, but bear with me. All shall be revealed. Until then, enjoy reading! I would love feedback of any kind, and am always appreciative of constructive criticism. Tell me how to better myself!

Chapter 1 - A Burial Deferred

Boston, 1947

The room was stiflingly hot as Woodrow Hoyt, Private Investigator, made his way into his office, dropping a grey fedora and overcoat on the too-small office chair as he made his way over to the grime-encrusted window, jerking it up on stiff hinges in an attempt to invite in the cool November breeze that had chased him up the rickety stairwell. Business had been slow lately, and he had just finished up a particularly boring case involving a wealthy dowager's St. Bernard and was hoping to sneak quietly into his office for the remainder of the day, hiding from the eventuality of yet another customer seeking his services for yet another pointless scavenger hunt. It was on days like this one that he truly missed being a homicide detective.

The sound of the door creaking open told him that his hopes would be futile, and he looked up to see Lily, his faithful secretary, walking through the doorway, followed by a figure that Woody certainly had never expected to see in his rundown office: the hulking frame of Max Cavanaugh.

Instantly straightening his relaxed posture, Woody ran a nervous hand through his hair before remembering to offer his other one to the man who had been his boss. After several unsuccessful attempts, he was finally able to form something approaching a suitable greeting.

"Mr. Cavanaugh!" he exclaimed, voice quavering slightly, unsure of the correct way to address a man who had once been both his boss and the Chief of Police, but could now lay claim to neither of those titles. "What are you…I mean, do you…I mean, is there something I can do for you, sir?" he stammered.

"Sit down, Hoyt," he returned. "I wouldn't be here if there wasn't something you could do for me."

Woody sat, but said nothing, unable to formulate a response that wouldn't cause him further embarrassment. Fortunately for him, Max resumed the conversation, looking supremely comfortable as he eased his enormous body into the diminutive visitors' chair, the only seat in the room not piled with the odds and ends of a life that Woody had neither the time nor the inclination to straighten.

"So, how are you, Hoyt?" he asked casually. "The boys tell me you're doing better."

"I'm fine, sir."

"Not entirely, I gather," he said, eyeing the cane propped against the younger man's desk, a betrayal of the normality he desperately sought to represent.

"Well, a bullet to the spine isn't an easy thing to recover from, but I manage," Woody answered brusquely, unhappy at having his deficiencies pointed out so casually.

"Good, good. Which brings me to why I'm here. I need someone who can…manage, someone I can trust. It's about my daughter." He paused. "About Jordan."

"Jordan!" Woody exclaimed, momentarily letting his shock overcome his professionalism, but only momentarily, and he continued in a much calmer voice, "What's happened to her?"

"She's gone."

"Kidnapped?"

"I doubt it. I haven't received any requests for ransom or any threats, at least none out of the ordinary. No, I think she ran away. She…we had an argument, and the next morning she was gone. I need you to find her for me, Hoyt. She's all I've got left."

Woody tactfully chose not to mention the fact that Max had a wife and stepdaughter, who were both at least financially interested in his well-being, instead continuing with, "And how long ago was this?"

"Two weeks. I thought she might have gone away to cool off, but when I hadn't heard from her in a week and a half, I got worried."

"Can I ask what you were fighting about?"

"Sorry, I can't tell you that, Hoyt. It's not really that complicated. Just find out where she's gone and bring her back. I'd do it myself, but, well, the former Chief of Police losing his own daughter doesn't incite a lot of confidence in the people, so I decided to go with someone less visible. Will you do this for me?"

"I will, sir."

"Thank you." He began to rise, but at the sound of Woody's voice, he paused, settling once more into the chair's confines.

"Oh, just one more thing," Woody interjected.

"What is it?"

"Who knows that she's missing?"

"Only me. I told anyone who asked that she's gone skiing in Switzerland."

"All right. No one will be the wiser. If anyone needs to know, I'll tell them that an old friend hired me to look for her and find out anything I could about her."

"You're a good man, Hoyt. Now, how much am I paying you?"

"Thirty dollars a day, plus expenses."

"You'll get it."

And with that, he stood, shook Woody's hand, and disappeared, leaving the room somewhat empty without his arresting presence, and leaving the detective in question to bury his head in his hands, thinking about the woman he had just been hired to find. Jordan Cavanaugh. Just when he thought he was starting to forget about her, she whirled her way, unannounced, back into his life, with all force of an unexpected cyclone.

At least the next few weeks wouldn't be boring.


	2. Outside Looking In

A/N: If anyone's seen the movie _The Women_, Jordan's dress in this chapter is based on the one Norma Shearer is trying on in the dressing room scene. I neglected to describe it because, after all, it's Woody's point of view, and I don't see him as a man that's all that interested in women's fashion.

Chapter 2 - Outside Looking In

1939

His first sighting of her had not been auspicious. A newly-made detective, he had been moonlighting as part of the security detail for some senator's ball or other, hoping to pick up a bit of cash to supplement his meager income. Max Cavanaugh, then the Chief of Police, was always especially concerned with security whenever his daughter was involved in any event, and he had ensured that Woody would be in attendance, along with several other hand-picked members of the finest men Boston's police department had to offer.

He remembered catching a glimpse of her when he entered the room to relieve some policeman whose name he had long forgotten, awkward in the evening wear he had been forced to don in order to "blend in" with his surroundings, and not fooling anyone for a moment that he actually belonged there. She had stood, surrounded by a crowd of men and women of similar age and social standing, talking and laughing with them and seeming not terribly different from any of them, although the form-fitting black gown she had chosen to wear set her apart somewhat from the sea of pastel gauze the girls surrounding her were swimming in.

But then, she had happened to glance up and catch his eye, and he knew that she was different; because she did something he had never seen any of the other "important" young women of the town do. She had looked at him, really looked, not given him a cursory glance before relegating him to the dark recesses of her mind reserved for unmentionables such as himself. She had looked at him, and then she smiled, a wry, knowing smile, that seemed to let him in on some private joke shared between the two of them. He knew in that instant that hers was a face he would never forget.

As the evening wore on, he found himself unable to take his eyes off her as she maneuvered her way gracefully around the room, ostensibly a part of everything going on around her, but still somehow aloof, as if she, too, didn't truly belong there. On more than one occasion, he found himself thanking whatever god it was that had decided his duty for the evening would be to watch her, enabling him to drink her in without calling too much suspicion to himself, although his lack of attention to his surroundings could have caused serious problems had any sort of security threat been posed. He was enjoying himself more than he had ever had reason to before at one of these dull parties, when he noticed with a start that Jordan Cavanaugh wasn't just walking in his general direction, she was actually walking straight up to him.

As if talking to her security detail were an everyday occurrence, Jordan leaned herself casually against a pillar facing him and asked without preamble, "So, what did you do to get landed with this job?"

Woody started at being addressed directly by the woman who haunted his thoughts all evening, and cursed himself for the childhood stammer that would make forming an intelligent answer for this paragon next to impossible. "Well, I…I…I, ummm…I had…" he stuttered, words tripping over themselves in his mind, but none able to finish the journey to his tongue

Noticing his discomfort, Jordan decided to take pity on the man and answer for him. "You've either done something very good, to be one of my father's favorites, or you've done something very bad, and have been demoted to making sure nothing untoward pops up out of Maddie Price's birthday cake."

"Oh, well, uh, your father picked me to be here, so, I guess, the…former?"

She laughed then, a rich, throaty laugh that seemed out of place among the sycophantic simpers of the other guests, muttered a quick, "You'll do," and before he could comprehend what was going on, she had wrapped five long, slender fingers around his wrist and was dragging him out onto a deserted balcony.

She laughed again at his frantic splutterings, glossing over his concern for his job and his post, reasoning that, as he had been hired to watch her, what better way could he fulfill his duty than by following her when she wandered out alone onto this dangerous and unprotected balcony. Resigned to and delighted by the fact that he wouldn't be escaping from Jordan Cavanaugh's headily unsettling company, Woody allowed himself to relax, waiting for her to resume the thread of the conversation, which she did with good-natured insolence.

"And what brings a farm boy like yourself to the big city?" she asked, again without any form of lead-in, wrapping bare arms around herself in defiance of the cold. He considered offering her his jacket, but decided that such an act of chivalry wouldn't do him any favors in her book.

"Farm boy?"

"Aren't you?"

"I'm…yes, I guess you could say that. I'm, uh, from a little town in Wisconsin," he said, as if he felt his past needed no other explanation.

"Ah, so you're a cheese farmer."

"Something like that."

"And how did a cheese farmer from Wisconsin wind up working for the Boston police department?" she asked, holding onto her line of questioning with the tenacity of a pit bull. It occurred to Woody that she would probably make a better detective than he did.

"I don't know. I just felt like a change."

"Really? So, you picked up and left everything you had ever known because of an undefined sense of wanderlust?" He should have known she wouldn't be dissuaded by his simple non-answers.

"No, I…" He was finding evasiveness increasingly difficult under her penetrating stare. "I guess I left because of a girl."

"What happened?"

"The usual. I was in love. She was in love. Her family objected."

"Why would someone object to you?"

He smiled at the back-handed compliment.

"Why wouldn't they? An orphaned sheriff's deputy in Keuwanee, Wisconsin doesn't have a lot of prospects," he noted wryly, amused at his openness with this woman who didn't even know his name.

"So you turned tail and fled? I wouldn't have pegged you for a coward."

"No. It wasn't like that. I knew they were right. I didn't have any prospects as long as I stayed there, so I moved somewhere where I could make something of myself."

"So it was more of an 'I'll show them' impulse."

"I guess you could call it that."

"And when you've been elected Mayor or Chief of Police, do you plan on going back to laugh in their faces or just to win back the girl?" she teased.

"Neither. I don't think I want to go back."

"Enjoying the excitement of our fair city too much?"

"I am now," he answered, boldly for him. She shivered, and he wondered if the night air had finally penetrated her defenses. Giving in to the chivalry that had been nagging at him since their escape, he offered her his coat, which she took with an amused expression.

"What's so funny?"

"You don't realize what you've done?" she asked, feigning incredulousness.

"What have I done?"

"Well, by not wearing a coat, I was ensuring that you would have an excuse for forcing me back inside if you felt the need. By giving me your coat, you're saying that you'd rather be out here with me than inside doing your job."

"I thought staying with you was my job. You've just made it easier for me."

"How did I do that?"

"It's a lot harder to lose track of you when you're standing right in front of me."

"Do I need to tell my father that you're being overpaid?"

"That depends on how much you think I deserve for putting up with you," he teased, happy at being able to match her light-hearted tone.

"But if putting up with me were so difficult, you could have led me back into the ballroom instead of giving me your coat," she rejoined, foregoing the offence most girls would have taken at such a comment. "No, you're making things easier for yourself, and I'll have to tell my father to lower your salary."

"It would be worth it," he answered with feigned gallantry, eliciting another of her intoxicating laughs.

"Why, Detective Hoyt, are you flirting with me?"

He blushed, unsure of how to respond, until he noted her manner of addressing him.

"How did you know my name?"

"Oh, that's easy. I saw the guard of honor list in my father's office last week. Detective Woodrow Hoyt was the only name I didn't recognize, and as yours was the only face I didn't recognize, I leapt to the most logical conclusion."

"Impressive detective work."

"Why, thank you. I learned from the best. Now, if you're out here, and I'm out here, and there's a band playing and a full moon, don't you think that we should…" The sound of a throat being cleared behind them interrupted them, leaving the promise in her words hanging in the air like a heavily perfumed fog. They turned around to see Max Cavanaugh glaring at them, a wry expression turning up the corners of his mouth. Woody blushed furiously, having been caught enjoying the atmosphere with his boss's daughter while he was supposedly on the job, but Jordan merely smiled enigmatically at them, giving her father a look of obviously insincere innocence.

"Jordan," Max greeted her, a warning in his voice.

"Yes, Daddy?" she asked, with the same air of innocence.

"I believe someone promised me a dance earlier this evening."

"Only one person? You're really going to have to work on your social skills, Dad."

"Enough of that, Jordan. You know I hate to break up a good time, but the party's almost over, so come inside and dance with your father. Sorry to drag her away, Hoyt."

Shocked at being directly and not reprimandingly addressed, it was several seconds before Woody could reply with, "That's all right, sir. I was just about to insist that we go back inside."

If she was affronted at being treated like spun glass, Jordan chose not to acknowledge it. She merely shrugged out of Woody's massive jacket and handed it back to him, before sauntering languorously back into the ballroom, leaving the two men to follow in her wake.

The party broke up soon after that, and Woody and Jordan's paths crossed only once more that evening, as she walked past him to her waiting automobile. They had no opportunity to speak, and it wasn't until he was undressing in the solitude of his cold apartment that he found the end to their conversation: a slip of paper, torn from what looked like someone's dance card, with the words, "Thanks for putting up with me. Let's do it again sometime. – J," etched in glistening black ink atop the list of unknown names and dances.


	3. Body of Evidence

Chapter 3 – Body of Evidence

1947

With a shake of the head, Woody pulled himself from his reminiscences, telling himself that he had too much to do in the present to dwell on the past. With that thought, he gave the clock a cursory glance, determined that the day was still young, and decided to set out for the most logical place to begin a missing persons search: the morgue. Gathering up his hat, coat, and cane, he lumbered out of his inner sanctum, pausing in front of Lilly's desk to let her know his plans.

"New case?" she asked, eyes round with excitement as they always were when anything new came their way.

"Yep. Missing person. I'll be at the morgue this afternoon if anyone stops by."

"You're going to the morgue?" Her voice rose several steps, reminding Woody of her inexplicable fascination with the place, or possibly the people who worked there.

"Yes. I probably won't be back in today, so feel free to take off whenever you need to."

"All right. Say hello to Dr. Macy for me; won't you?" she asked, the tips of her ears turning a delicate crimson.

"Will do. Have a good evening." And with that he was gone, stepping out once again into the cloudy Boston afternoon, feet planted reluctantly in the direction of the city morgue.

* * *

"So, Hoyt, what can I do for you?" Garret Macy, chief medical examiner for the city of Boston, inquired of his unexpected and rather uneasy guest.

"I'm working a missing persons case, actually, Dr. Macy, and I thought I'd stop by to see…"

"…if I had any bodies matching your missing person's description?"

"Exactly. Female, late twenties, brown hair and eyes, last seen wearing a red suit and coat." As Woody rattled off the statistics, Dr. Macy noticed the detective nervously playing with a worn scrap of paper.

"You working the Cavanaugh case?" he asked.

"How did you know about that?" Woody exclaimed, incredulous.

"I've known Max Cavanaugh and his daughter a long time. She usually stops by here fairly often, and it's been awhile since I've seen her. Max was in here a few days ago, and he seemed pretty worried about something. I figured she'd gone missing again."

"I've been asked to keep it a secret, but since you already know…" He sighed. "Yes, Max came in earlier today asking me to find her. This seemed the logical place to begin."

Dr. Macy glanced suspiciously at him for an instant before resuming his professional veneer.

"Sorry to disappoint you, detective, but I don't have anyone here matching her description."

"Thanks anyway, Dr. Macy. To be honest, I'm glad you don't."

"You know the Cavanaugh girl?"

"Not very well," he lied, "but I've been needing a new case with something to interest me."

"One too many searches for lost jewels?"

"Lost dogs, actually, but what can you do?"

Macy laughed at his feeble attempt at a joke as both men rose.

"Good luck with the case," he added as they shook hands. "Let me know if she turns up."

"Thanks, Dr. Macy. I will. Oh, and by the way, Lily asked me to say hello for her." He turned to go, but paused, his eyes landing on a figure that had just passed the doorway. A woman, dressed to perform an autopsy, was sauntering up the hall, dark brown curls and swaying hips all too familiar to the young detective. He shook his head, and when his gaze refocused, she was gone. Convinced that he was beginning to see mirages, Woody took his leave of the medical examiner and hobbled toward the exit, hoping that a stiff drink and some rest would set him to rights.


	4. Through a Glass Darkly

A/N: Just a fun fact: In 1877 Boston, Massachusetts was the first city to establish a medical examiner system as opposed to having a coroner, who is politically appointed and does not necessarily have a medical degree. Coincidence? I don't know, but happy reading! Review, please!

Chapter 4 – Through a Glass Darkly

1947

The next day, Woody began his search in earnest, beginning with a visit to the imposing Beacon Hill structure that the Cavanaughs called home. In point of fact, the house belonged to Jordan, as it would have belonged to her mother, Emily, were she still living, though it was being held in trust by Max until his daughter's marriage.

It was odd, really, the things one did and did not know about a family like the Cavanaughs. So much about them was shrouded in mystery; while at the same time, much of their private lives had become public consumption. Casting his mind back, Woody tried to remember all he had learned about them on that day so many years ago when, just after his first meeting with Jordan and filled with an overwhelming curiosity to know everything he possibly could about this enigmatic woman, he had sought out the one source he knew he could count on to be able to impart to him even the minutest details of their existence.

* * *

1939 

He still remembered the room, a tiny hole at the back of the precinct that served as a repository for all things that had outlived their usefulness. The air was stale and hazy with the residual smoke of a thousand cigarettes lit over a lifetime in the windowless, airless cupboard, where irregular stacks of boxes and spills of papers formed fantastic shapes and patterns in the murky atmosphere. At the far end of the room, seated behind a warped slab of wood that barely passed as a desk, sat the Boston Police Department's oldest living relic.

According to legend, he had once been an officer, one of the best, but no one in the precinct's current employ could remember such a time. He had been injured numerous times, but had kept on at his job until he had to be literally forced off the streets. Rather than choosing to retire, he had remained with the department, being shunted from one desk job to another, growing ever more remote and therefore mythical, as he was gradually detached from the day to day workings of the place, eventually coming to serve as a sort of collective memory, the final source to go to when all other recourses had failed. If information was needed, he was the person from whom one sought it.

Woody approached the desk and the tiny man, wrinkled, hairless, almost sub-human in appearance, who sat behind it. With a cough, he attempted to alert the man to his presence, but to no avail. The man merely continued to sift aimlessly through the mountain of papers covering his desk. Woody tried again.

"Excuse me, sir?"

No answer.

"Sir?" he asked, louder this time.

Still no answer.

"Lieutenant Wilde!" he shouted.

He looked up, finally, blinking owlishly at Woody from behind enormous glasses.

"No need to shout, young man. No need to shout," he murmured absent mindedly.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"What's that?"

"I said I'm sorry, sir," Woody shouted again.

"Oh, you're sorry! Quite all right. Quite all right. Now, what can I do for you, young man?" he asked listlessly.

"I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me anything about the Cavanaughs."

"The whats?"

"The Cavanaughs!"

"Oh, the Cavanaughs," he said, the indifferent air fading from his manner, to be replaced by a quiet pleasure at having an audience for his reminiscences. "Lovely family, lovely family. I remember Max when he just joined the force. Great detective. And his wife, Emily. Poor woman. Quite a scandal, it was, when those two married. And their daughter, Jordan. Used to come visit me when she was just a wee thing; pulled up flowers from the park across the way to bring to me. Still does, sometimes."

Woody smiled at this innocent, childish image of the whirlwind he had met the night before.

"Could you tell me about them?" he inquired, loudly.

"That's what I'm trying to do, son."

"I'm sorry. Please continue," he shouted.

And so Woody spent the afternoon cloistered in that tiny office, ignoring his discomfort at the cramped quarters and his difficulty breathing through the choking cigarette smoke, listening in fascination as the old man regaled him with tales of generations of Cavanaughs, past and present. He learned of Max's parents and grandparents, ostensibly a regular working-class family, but always followed by whispers of criminal pasts and shady dealings. He learned of the scandal that rocked Boston when Emily Pritchard, of one of Boston's oldest and wealthiest families, had run off with Max Cavanaugh, a brilliant but penniless detective with uncertain prospects and a questionable family background, and of their subsequent stormy marriage. Emily, according to Wilde, had always been a strange child – sweet, but moody, and there was something that just wasn't quite right about her. The couple had been prone to frequent, rather public arguments, and Emily was known to have disappeared several times in the years before her daughter was born. For a while after Jordan's birth, their lives appeared to have settled down into an idyllic pattern. Both Emily and Max were devoted to the girl, and all other problems seemed to be forgotten, especially with Max's rapid career advancement. However, such happiness could never last, and by Jordan's fifth birthday, the fights had returned, as well as the disappearances. Emily's behavior grew more and more erratic and Max grew more and more withdrawn as the years ground on, especially after the death of Emily's mother and the subsequent financial windfall it created for her only child, until the day their lives were irrevocably shattered, when Jordan came home from school to find her mother's lifeless body sprawled across the floor, blood congealing around a fatal bullet wound. The murder was never solved.

At that point, Wilde shifted his narrative to Jordan, telling Woody of the change in her after her mother's death. She and Max had always shared a closely bonded relationship, but upon Emily's death Max grew increasingly anxious about Jordan and dependent upon her, always worried about her safety and shoveling responsibilities on her in an effort to control that safety. For her part, Jordan seemed to take it all in her stride. Always a curiously adult child, she seemed to take it upon herself to care for her father, growing closer to him rather than resenting his interference in her life. But while absorbing her father's worries, she also began her own form of rebellion. According to Wilde, she had developed a vigilant sense of justice, and many were the times he had seen her in her father's office, sporting a panoply of cuts and bruises from her latest fight, always claiming that she was in the right, that the other girl or boy had been doing something truly atrocious and had to be stopped. She withdrew from the world her mother had belonged to, preferring to spend her time investigating her father's cases rather than enter into the social world of the exclusive school her mother's money had provided for. At sixteen she began her life of scandal when, as a reluctant debutante, she had entered society with red stripes sewn into her white cotillion gown. From then on, her life had been one of unorthodoxy. She was linked to first one young man, then another, but she never appeared to be on the verge of settling down and remained unmarried, a sin in and of itself for a young woman so attractive and socially prominent. While she did upon occasion attend various events expected of one in her position, she was as often as not seen poking around the police station or city morgue, her companions an indiscriminate hodge-podge of age, background, and position.

By the afternoon's end, Woody was more curious and unsatisfied than he had been before his visit, his fascination with the mystifying woman he had met the evening before having only increased with the taste of her history he had been given by the blind, deaf, and all-knowing old man hidden away from the noise and action of everyday life.

* * *

1947

Once again chastising himself for woolgathering, Woody brought himself back to the present and his current task: to interview the newest additions to Jordan Cavanaugh's life – her stepmother and stepsister. With a sigh, he mounted the steps, wondering what was in store for him upon his meeting with these two unknown entities.


	5. Girl Hunt Ballet

**A/N**: Wow! Thank you so, so much, my incredibly kind and generous reviewers. It's such a joy to wake up in the morning or come home after a particularly taxing day and find a new comment waiting.

**Daynaa:** Sorry you were confused. There isn't really a whole lot of explanation to be had. Essentially, I've taken character names and personalities and some basic plot points and put them in another setting. There's no reason to why they're there, and they aren't physically connected to the characters from the show. I really should have done a better job explaining that.

**GoddessofSnark:** Thanks for the comparison! I haven't been able to find _Where's Marlowe_, but it's been on my list of things to see for awhile now. I'm always up for some more Miguel. I wish I could write more Garret, but I can't seem to be able to get into his psyche. I guess I'll just have to enjoy yours. I've been trying to find an opportunity to read "A Long, Slow Burn."

**Textual Notes:**

I've changed Devan's name to Edan, because Devan just seemed too present-day, and Edan, at least to my ear, has a similar cadence, and I've been able to track quite a few usages of the name throughout Western history. I know Jordan most likely wouldn't have been named Jordan, either, but I can't change her name or Woody's.

I've attempted to do some research into the place and period, but my knowledge is a bit spotty in some areas. If I've made any historical or geographical errors, please let me know.

Also, if anyone's curious, the painting Woody notices is Rembrandt's "The Anatomy Lecture of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp," and Kurt Weill was a German Jewish composer of mostly opera and musical theater, working in from the 1920s through 1950. He created numerous experimental works for the theater, my favorite of which is _Lady in the Dark_, although he is probably best known as the composer of the song "Mack the Knife."

Sorry this Author's Note has been so long. Now, on to the story. I know the ending to the chapter is a bit cliché, but as the story was inspired by the song "Lost and Found" in the musical _City of Angels_, in which a similar event occurs, it seemed wrong not to include it. As always, I'm thoroughly appreciative of any comments you have to make, whether negative or positive. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 5 – Girl Hunt Ballet

1947

The door was opened by the butler, a stiff, creaking man with unnaturally erect carriage, the type of servant frequently given the appellation family retainer. After stating his name and business, Woody followed the ramrod line of the man's back as he led him through a darkened labyrinth of hallways, finally leaving him in an ornately appointed sitting room while he ambled off in search of his mistress.

Woody was seated uncomfortably in a heavily embroidered chair that seemed to have been chosen for aesthetic rather than practical reasons, staring vacantly at a painting of a group of men in black gathered around a cadaver, which he guessed had not been of the new Mrs. Cavanaugh's choosing, when the door opened.

The figure that walked across the threshold was definitely not Evelyn Cavanaugh. Given her age and appearance, Woody concluded that she must be Edan Maguire, Evelyn's daughter from a previous marriage. She was pretty in a sharp way, very thin, with thick blonde hair and angular features accompanied by enormous eyes, which were currently taking in Woody's attractive features and well-built physique with detached appreciation. She sidled up to him, ensuring that he had a full opportunity to appreciate the view her figure presented.

"So, what are you, Max's new bodyguard?" she asked insolently.

"Hardly," he answered, gesturing to his ever-present cane. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before being dissolved by her habitual boredom.

"You're pretty brawny for a cripple," she noted.

"I wouldn't call myself a cripple," he replied coolly, not letting himself her rudeness affront him.

"Then if you aren't a bodyguard, what are you doing here?"

"I'm actually looking for your sister."

"My sister? Oh, you mean Jordan." She gave him another appraising look. "You do look like the type of man she'd drag in here."

Woody cringed at her pronouncement, uncomfortable with its proximity to the truth, and decided to steer the topic away from himself.

"Has she been around here lately?"

"Why do you want to know? Lovelorn?" she mocked.

"No," he replied with carefully modulated indifference. "I've been hired to find out where she is."

"Hired by whom?"

"An old friend who wishes to remain anonymous."

"Oh," she breathed, interested despite herself. "Then I suppose I'll have to tell you that she hasn't been here for weeks."

"Do you know where she went?"

"No. Max says she's in Switzerland, but I don't know if he's guessing or lying."

"Why do you think he doesn't know?" he continued questioning impassively.

"Well, if Jordan were going to tell Max where she was going, she'd probably tell someone else, too," she confided.

"You?"

"Maybe, maybe not, but no one's heard from her in two weeks, including those friends of hers who have been coming here looking for her."

"Are you two close?"

"Jordan and I?" she asked incredulously. "No, I wouldn't say we're close. We get along decently, we don't fight often, and we like each other well enough, but we'll never be what you'd call friends of the bosom."

"And who are her friends of the bosom?"

"Oh, the usual conglomeration of unwashed peasants."

"Can you give me names?"

She did.

"Thank you, Miss Maguire."

"Is the interrogation over, detective?"

The insolence was back, with a certain edge that made Woody distinctly uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to reply, when Evelyn Cavanaugh wandered in, a distressed look on her face. She must have been several years younger than Max, but still of a respectable age, and she sported the same blonde hair as her daughter. Her features also had something of the angular look that Edan's had, but the plumpness of her face and body did a good deal to offset it.

"Edan, I didn't know you were still here," she exclaimed.

"I was just on my way out, Mother, when Snethers told me we had a visitor. I thought I'd look in and let him pay his respects," her daughter replied.

"Ah, yes. Detective Hoyt, isn't it? Of course, you'll be looking for my husband. I don't know where that man has gone off to, but he isn't here," she fretted.

"Actually, ma'am, I was hoping to talk to you and your daughter."

"Me? Why, whatever could you want with me?"

"He wants to know where Jordan is, Mother," Edan replied in his stead.

"Jordan? Now, there's another one who is impossible to find. Her father says she's gone to Switzerland for the skiing, and I suppose if anyone would know where she is, he would."

"Is that what you think?" Edan asked, adopting what she appeared to think of as a "detective voice" and throwing an amused glance in Woody's direction.

"Why, I…Edan, why are _you _asking me that?" Evelyn was clearly confused.

"I'm sorry, Mother. I was just trying to help out the good detective," Edan answered with mock contrition. "Now, I really must dash. I'll see you this evening, Mother. Don't forget we're attending that party at the Astons' tonight."

"Of course I remember the Astons. Now run along, dear."

Edan rose to go, but stopped, pivoting on her heal to turn back to them.

"Oh, detective," she said.

"Yes?"

"If I happen to remember anything else of value…"

Woody, who had risen along with her, reached into his pocket, pulling out several pieces of paper of various sizes. Sorting one out, he handed it to her, saying, "Here's my card. Call if you think of anything else that might help."

"And if I don't?" she asked suggestively, then sashayed at a much quicker pace out of the room before Woody could reply.

Mrs. Cavanaugh, oblivious to her daughter's blatant flirtation, continued on as if it were a normal occurrence, urging Woody to have a seat and inviting him to join her for tea.

* * *

The rain that had threatened to burst forth all day was just beginning as Woody pulled himself into his last stop of the evening. None of the leads he had gotten from Edan Maguire or Mrs. Cavanaugh had proved at all fruitful, and it was with mounting frustration that he pulled himself into the building, chosen both because of its proximity to his apartment and the fact that it was sure to be well stocked with alcohol.

The Glass Slipper was a place that Woody was well acquainted with, although it was not one he would normally choose to visit. Jordan had introduced him to it in the early days of their friendship, when she had found out that he had never considered entering it, despite the fact he lived a mere two blocks away. It was widely considered to be one of Boston's more bizarre nightclubs, a place filled with avant-garde artwork and specializing in serving drinks that the majority of its customers had never heard of before. However, Jordan had assured him that the music was always excellent and the owners were friends of hers, and he had allowed himself to be dragged along for the ride as he always had where she was concerned.

Making his way awkwardly through the artistically arranged patches of light and the crowds that fluttered around them, he seated himself upon a pair of melting lips, looking around for some sort of server, although their costumes changed so frequently they were hard to recognize. A hard slap on his shoulder told him that he had been found, and he turned to see the club's proprietor, Nigel Townsend, beaming down at him.

"Woodrow!" he exclaimed. "Glad to see you, mate. It's been awhile since you've darkened our door. Can I interest you in a…"

"Straight scotch, Nigel," Woody interrupted before Nigel had the chance to get started on his latest list of concoctions, knowing that he could be there listening for the next three hours if Nigel had the chance to build up steam.

"Oh, Woodrow, you're no fun at all," he pouted, then sighed. "I suppose you can't win them all, but what brings you here after so long?"

"Actually, I'm looking for Jordan."

"Jordan?" The tall Englishman's face was a mixture of confusion, suspicion, and excitement. "I didn't know you two were…"

"We're not. It's business."

"Ah, yes." Nigel's expression dimmed. "I wish I could help you, Woody, but I've not seen or heard from her in weeks."

"Any idea where she could be?"

"None," he said slowly, "though if I hear from her I'll be sure to let you know."

"Thanks, Nigel."

"Anytime. So," he continued, "I hear you're not with the police department anymore."

"I haven't been since the war started."

"That's right. Jordan told me."

Woody looked at him, startled.

"So," Nigel continued, attempting to gloss over his faux pas, "I hear you've made quite a name for yourself as a private eye."

"I'm doing the same thing; it's just a change of title," he answered shortly.

"Yes, of course." The conversation came to a halt, neither sure what to say to the other and both unwilling to acknowledge the subject that was uppermost in their minds. Luckily, they were interrupted by another familiar voice.

"Nigel," the voice called, "you'd better come backstage. That costume is not working for…Woody! I didn't know you were here."

"Good to see you, Bug," Woody replied.

How a man such as Mahesh "Bug" Vijayaraghavensatyanaryanamurthy came to run a nightclub in Boston, Massachusetts was a mystery to all who knew him. A scientist originally from India, he had moved to the United States from England for reasons unknown sometime during the 1930's. Unable to find work in his new country, he had been offered a partnership in the nightclub that Nigel, who had somehow managed to befriend him, was setting up, and he had leapt at the chance to support himself. Over the years he had acted as an at least partial counterbalance to the wildest of Nigel's ideas, and their partnership, strange as it was, had flourished.

"It's good to see you, too, Woody. We can't stay, though. We're having a wardrobe problem, and we need Nigel backstage," Bug said slowly, significant looks passing between himself and Nigel as he did so.

"Oh, right," Nigel replied uneasily. "I should have known you couldn't get along without me. Sorry, Woodrow. We've just got a replacement singer and none of the clothes are fitting her, plus we're debuting some music by Weill that she's just not sure on. But listen, any drink you want is on the house. It was good to see you again. Drop in again sometime."

"Thanks, Nigel. Good luck with the new girl."

And with that the pair of men hurried off, chattering rapidly to each other. Woody, when his drink was finally served, sat back to watch the strange little orchestra tune its instruments, allowing himself to relax and enjoy what promised to be another memorable performance.

He didn't know how long he had been sitting, staring blankly at the stage, letting the incomprehensible music wash over his senses, when it happened again. This time, it was a whiff of perfume, absent for years but not forgotten, which brought his mind crashing back to the course it had been circling since Jordan's unceremonious reintroduction to his life. It was then that he spotted it: a small white card business card from The Glass Slipper, bearing a familiar scrawl reading, "Heard you were looking for me. – J."

* * *

The drizzle had become a deluge when Woody finally made it back to his apartment building, after an extensive search of the nightclub that had yielded no other sign of Jordan, although it had served to ruffle the feathers of both Bug and Nigel.

Exhausted, damp, and limping more than usual, Woody slowly opened his door and entered the hallway. He heard music, faintly, but dismissed it, assuming that he had forgotten to turn off the radio that morning after habitually listening to the newscast. Entering the tiny apartment's main room, removing coat and tie as he went, he received his first hint that something had truly changed since last he had been there: a decidedly feminine evening gown in flaming red and a pair of stockings draped over his radiator. Coming fully into the room, he found the culprit behind these unfamiliar touches in his living space. Huddled up in his bed, soaking wet, shivering, and apparently undressed, sat Jordan Cavanaugh.


	6. The Nearness of You

**A/N: **Woah! I didn't realize that most people would conclude that Jordan was completely naked, not that I can blame you. Although everyone needs a little naked time (see Potter Puppet Pals), I didn't intend for undressed to be synonymous with nude, but then my mind is oddly pure. Sorry if I've disappointed or misled anyone. I hope you enjoy the following chapter, anyway. If you don't, or if you do, please let me know.

Also, a big, _Altar Boyz_-style shout-out to my beloved Seestorus, who helped me iron out the kinks in my plot. Just for her, I've included a _Forbidden Broadway: SVU_ reference. Can you spot it?

* * *

Chapter 6 – The Nearness of You

1947

_It's not the pale moon that excites me,_

_That thrills and delights me, oh, no – _

_It's just the nearness of you. _

That Jordan was a master of situation was undeniable. The setting was perfect, something out of a dime store detective novel – the detective, world-weary and untouchable, coming home to find his quarry, female and overtly sexually charged, nude in his bed, Hoagy Carmichael's voice warbling over the static of the radio, mocking him as it crooned about "The Nearness of You." If he were one of those detectives, whom he both envied and abhorred for their detachment, he would have to throw her out, destroying the threat she posed to his dominance over the space he inhabited. However, just as he knew that he was not one of those detectives, he also knew that Jordan was not one of those girls. Impulsive rather than manipulative, he could easily believe that she had merely decided to run out without an umbrella and had sensibly undressed to avoid catching cold or ruining whatever she chose to sit upon. However, he also surmised that that same impulsiveness would not stop her from using the situation – the vulnerability given to her by her bedraggled appearance, not to mention the damp slip clinging to her skin – to her advantage.

"Jordan," he said, his voice harsh and clipped, "what are you doing here?"

She opened her mouth to answer, when a crash of thunder shook the apartment, and she jumped, shivering again and drawing up the blankets that had been lying loosely around her. Remembering her fear of thunderstorms, Woody almost decided to take pity on her, but then he recalled all of the anger that had been building over six years of not seeing her, and continued in the same cold vein.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again, voice rising.

"Haven't you been looking for me?" she answered, her impertinence seemingly undiminished.

"Jordan," he warned.

"All right," she relented. "I…I need your help."

"That's wonderful, Jordan. Really, it is, and if we had been on anything like friendly terms for the past six years I might just consider throwing caution and security to the wind and following you like an addled lap dog on your latest adventure. I'm sure you expect me to."

For a moment, she looked as if she had been slapped, shock and hurt warring in her expression, but then the all-too-familiar fire rekindled, and she leapt out of bed to stand toe-to-toe with him, matching his furious tone with one of her own.

"Are you really addled? Do you think I was the one that rejected you? That I just decided on my own to run off? That you didn't do everything in your power to drive me away? Do you think I would be here if this wasn't my last resort? Whatever else you are, though, you're trustworthy, and I need your help, so stop yelling at me and listen."

Intrigued in spite of himself, and grudgingly acknowledging the justice of her reprimand, Woody decided to hear her out, relinquishing his anger and sinking wearily into a chair, motioning for her to do the same.

"What is it that you want, Jordan?" he asked resignedly.

"I need to find out what happened to my mother."

"Your mother? Jordan, that case has been cold for almost twenty years."

"I know, but I have to know what happened to her. I feel like there's something I'm missing, something I should know. I can't and won't go home until I know."

"Why can't you go home?" he probed.

"I'm not safe there."

"Why?"

"I wish I could tell you. I don't know, exactly. I just feel…threatened. I'm not sure who I can trust, but I know I can trust you. Will you help me?"

He leaned back, weighing what he knew of Jordan's obstinacy against his desire to be done with the whole affair. Sighing wearily, he made up his mind.

"It doesn't look like I have much choice. My job is to bring you home, and you won't go home until you find out what happened. I'm just expediting matters."

"I'm glad you see it that way," she replied with a smirk.

The tension between them now defused, Woody once again noticed her appearance, taking in the wet hair plastered to her skin and the thin body that shivered in the warm air of his apartment. He also noticed a tautness to her, like a spring wound too tightly or a rubber band stretched almost to the breaking point. She was too thin, too tired, and too tense for him not to pity her, despite the lingering anger that caused a tiny part of him to triumph at her expense.

"What are you going to do about the rest of the night?" he asked, with more compassion than he had heretofore shown.

"I was going to go back to the rooms I'm renting, but…" She gestured to her waterlogged garments.

"I suppose I have to offer you a place to stay, then."

A deafening peal of thunder once again interrupted her, and she jumped, wrapping her arms around her body as her only form of protection. Seeing her so frightened and uncharacteristically helpless, it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and soothe her like a little child. Instead, he shuffled painfully across the room, opening a drawer and pulling out a white button-down shirt.

"Here," he said gruffly. "Put this on. You can stay here till morning."

"Thank you, Woody," she replied, sadly noting his pronounced limp. "But are you sure…"

"Just put the shirt on, Jordan, and get in bed."

"I…I can't take your bed. You need it."

"I'll be fine on the couch, now go to sleep," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, and for once, miraculously, she didn't argue.

She wrapped the shirt around herself, not bothering to push up the sleeves as she crawled into his narrow, Spartan bed.

"Good night, Woody."

"Good night, Jordan."


	7. Dancing in the Dark

**A/N: **"My Funny Valentine" belongs to the late Rodgers and Hart, or whoever is now in possession of their estates. "The Nearness of You," referenced in the previous chapter, belongs to the heirs of Hoagy Carmichael.

All right, gentle readers. I need a favor. I am thinking of submitting a slightly different and more original version of this story for consideration for a creative writing class. If someone wants to give me a really in-depth review of my diction, grammatical structures, basic plot, etc., I would be eternally grateful, though I am by no means pressuring you, as I want you to enjoy your reading above all things.

As always, I love you, each and every, my beloved readers and reviewers. I'm glad you keep coming back, and I'm always grateful for reviews of any kind. Happy weekend!

Chapter 7 – Dancing in the Dark

1947

Woody squirmed on the couch, eyes staring at the ceiling, intermittently illuminated by a flashing red light, unable to find a comfortable position for his too-large body, not to mention his already aching back. Of course, even if he could find a comfortable position, the thought of her sleeping not ten feet away from him, in his bed, wearing his shirt, was enough to keep him in a state of uncomfortable wakefulness. He was tempted to give up and crawl into bed with her, although he knew his chances for sleep then were less than they were now. On the other hand, not sleeping in bed with Jordan was definitely preferable to not sleeping on the couch without her.

He tried to think of something else, any subject that would have a marginally more soporific effect, but his thoughts kept returning to Jordan: finding her in his bed, arguing with her while she shivered before him in that wet slip, watching her curl up in his shirt, then stretching further back, remembering, as his mind finally began its descent into semi-consciousness, her first visit there.

* * *

1939 

The day had not been one of his best. Since his relocation to Boston, Woody had taken full advantage of his anonymity and had managed to transform himself into the kind of guy whom everyone likes and no one really knows. Thanks to his innocuous persona, he had, for the most part, been able to avoid arguments and conflict during his time with the Boston Police Department. Today, however, had not been one of those days, and as he climbed the stairs to the tiny hole in the wall he called home, Eddie Winslow's words were still ringing in his ears.

"_Trust me, Hoyt. You don't want to get involved with her. A guy like you wouldn't last two weeks with Jordan Cavanaugh, and that's if she lets you close enough to find out. Stay out of it."_

Woody had felt both jealous of Eddie's implied intimacy with Jordan and offended by his offhand dismissal of himself. The fight had quickly escalated and Woody had left the precinct with few kind thoughts about his direct superior, as well as an increasing disappointment in himself for allowing Eddie's words to anger him. He had hoped that in leaving his home behind, he had also left behind the negative feelings that could cause him to react so strongly.

As opened his front door, loosening his tie and beginning to unbutton his jacket as he did so, he was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with a beer and a mindless radio broadcast. However, what he found upon entering was Jordan, sitting on his miniscule table, legs swinging back and forth with childlike energy.

"Jordan?" he asked, bewildered. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting."

"How did you get in here?"

"I picked the lock," she answered, as if this were a completely normal behavior, although, he realized, for her it probably was.

"You do realize that I'm a cop, don't you?"

"Yes. I think we both know you're a cop. Why bring it up?"

"You're breaking and entering. I could arrest you," he answered, speaking as if to a particularly obtuse child.

Her eyes widened with fiendish glee.

"But, oh, officer," she exclaimed breathlessly, "I just came thank you for your admirable service to the…community. You wouldn't arrest me for that, would you?" She fluttered her lashes mockingly at him, and the stern expression he had been affecting dissolved, as it always did when faced with her peculiar brand of humor.

"Aren't you curious about why I came to visit?" she asked.

Bad mood forgotten, Woody could think of nothing he would like more than to humor her in whatever game she was playing.

"You're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"Probably."

"Then go ahead."

"Thanks. Well, I was walking through my father's office today, on a completely disinterested visit, when I saw this." She handed him a now-crumpled piece of paper. "As you see, Detective Hoyt, it seems that you've received a commendation and are eligible for promotion."

"Jordan, what are you doing with this?"

"Relax. It's just a carboy copy, and I doubt my father's going to be needing it again."

"You'll put it back tomorrow?" he asked pleadingly.

"All right, if you really want me to, but that's not the point. The point is: we need to celebrate."

"We?"

"Is there someone you'd rather be celebrating with?" she asked archly. When he didn't reply, she continued with a triumphant, "I thought not. Now, as you know, I don't cook, but I did manage to sweet-talk Anatole into packing up something for us, so just point me in the direction of your hot plate, and I can provide for you a fabulous gourmet meal, a prelude to our night of celebration. Better yet, you find your way to the hot plate, and I'll call Nigel. He's probably got a few dancing girls stashed somewhere that he could send up for your entertainment."

"You don't want to go anywhere?"

"You don't, and tonight's your party."

"True. But I think I can forego the dancing girls."

"Would you prefer mimes? Trapeze artists? What about a lady contortionist?"

"Just find some way to occupy yourself. Put a record on. I'll reheat."

"Ah, so you want to do the dancing yourself."

"Maybe."

Woody sauntered into the area generously known as the kitchen, the thrill of promotion and the always intoxicating presence of Jordan Cavanaugh combining to ease away the tension and anxiety he had expected to end his day with.

* * *

The meal had been delicious, the wine, also generously provided by Anatole, had been exceptional, and by the time Woody finished the last bite of a cake that had originally been decorated with the heavily flourished words "Congradulotions, Det. Hoyt" (spelling was not Anatole's strong point), he was well on his way to the blissful mental blankness that generally follows a pleasant culinary experience. However, Jordan, still sporting the same energy that had driven her to break into his apartment to show him a stolen slip of paper, had other ideas. Rather than sitting back to tranquilly digest, she rose, walking languorously over to his phonograph, carefully selecting a record and dropping down the needle. A slow, bittersweet tune emerged amidst the static and crackle of the recording, as Jordan beckoned him to her.

"I did promise you dancing," she said simply.

He gathered her carefully to him as they danced, moving slowly in time to the throaty ballad.

_My funny Valentine, sweet, comic Valentine – _

_You make me smile with my heart. _

_Your looks are laughable, unphotographable, _

_Yet you're my favorite work of art. _

_Is your figure less than Greek? _

_Is your mouth a little weak? _

_When you open it to speak, are you smart?_

_But don't change a hair for me, _

_Not if you care for me – _

_Stay, little Valentine, stay!_

_Each day is Valentine's day. _

When the music stopped, Jordan again surprised Woody by not moving immediately away from him. They stood, balanced on that single moment, staring contentedly at each other. Then, Jordan's eyes widened, as if she had just come to a realization. She smiled at him, reaching up slowly, painstakingly, to touch her lips to his. They kissed softly, with a tentativeness Woody didn't know Jordan possessed, and separated with equal softness, the cryptic smile returning to Jordan's face as she eased herself from his grasp.

She turned, wandering unhurriedly to his door. With one more enigmatic smile, she was gone, leaving Woody to smile bemusedly at the space where he had last seen her.


	8. Too Many Mornings

**A/N: **Thanks again to my awesome reviewers. Pyroangel32, I'm dreadfully sorry for putting your job in such jeopardy, especially after such a glowing review. It made my week.

Just as a warning, I'm heading into an extremely busy time, so I don't know how frequently I'll be able to update, but I'll certainly try to keep up some sort of schedule.

Ooh, and I just reached 1947 hits! How appropriate is that? It's a shame I missed 1939.

As always, reviews and any criticism are appreciated.

* * *

Chapter 8 – Too Many Mornings

1947

Awakening the next morning, the first thing to assault Woody's senses was the smell of coffee. As he slipped further into wakefulness, he became aware of the discomfort that seemed to have settled over every inch of his body. His muscles ached from his awkward sleeping position, although the pain in his back had lessened. He had neglected to close the blinds, and the late morning sun was streaming through the glass and down onto him, leaving him with an uncomfortably warm sensation, as if he were being slowly boiled. As he attempted to crack one eye open, he realized that they, too, hurt. But the scents of coffee and blackening toast were appealing to his awakening appetite and just intriguing enough to make the detective in him want to investigate, and he managed to open his eyes and heave himself into a seated position, his first concessions to the day ahead.

What he saw was enough to make him question his newly achieved state of consciousness. Turning his head, he could see Jordan, padding barefoot around his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts and looking intoxicatingly disheveled. If this apparition weren't enough, Jordan was actually cooking, or at least attempting to cook, and the idea of Jordan in such an idyllically domestic scene was enough to make him fear for his sanity.

She turned then, noticing that he was awake, and smiled cautiously at him, thanking him for not throwing her out the night before. For a moment, they seemed to have achieved a tentative peace. Then, Woody rose, stiffly and in obvious pain, and he saw her face fall sadly into the expression he least wanted to see: pity. Instantly, the defenses Woody had honed over the past six years reasserted themselves, and he settled once more into the familiar mask of cold indifference.

"And what do you have planned for us today?" he asked mockingly.

"At the moment, I'm planning on drinking coffee," she said slowly, uncertain in the face of his volatile personality.

Deciding not to argue with her without caffeine in his system, Woody limped silently to the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup, which he used to wash down a mouthful of pain killers. It was too strong and too hot, but it beat the swill that normally sat around the precinct, and he was grateful that she had at least made the effort. He sat, drinking coffee and eating plain, burnt toast as Jordan made her way to the phone, holding the receiver with one hand and twirling her hair with the other, waiting for an answer from whoever happened to be on the other end. Finally, someone picked up, and Woody listened intently to their conversation, feeling guilty for eavesdropping, but justifying it with the thought that he had nowhere to go where he wouldn't be able to hear.

"Nigel?" she asked, pausing while he responded. "It's Jordan….I'm fine. I'm at Woody's….No, he…No, Nigel, I'm fine, really….Of course he didn't throw me out. I got caught in the rain, and, well, do you think you could send someone up here with my suitcase? Thanks, and I'm sorry about last night. Goodbye."

They were sitting in tense silence, broken occasionally by deafening attempts to chew the charred toast, neither one willing to start a conversation that would, in all likelihood, lead to another fight, when Nigel arrived. Taking in the domestic setting, Nigel's expression lit up with gleeful anticipation, until he noticed the uneasy atmosphere, which his presence had failed to alleviate.

Jordan rose immediately, grateful for the distraction, and grabbed her suitcase, throwing a quick "Thank you" over her shoulder as she rushed into the bathroom, leaving Nigel and Woody to stare uncomfortably at each other.

"Woodrow," Nigel said, breaking the silence.

"Can we just skip the part about, 'If you hurt her, you'll have me to answer to in lieu of a protective older brother'?" Woody interrupted.

"Actually," he replied calmly, "I was going to credit you with more sense than to think you could get away with hurting her, and I was just going to warn you that, whatever has happened or will happen between you two, she's extremely fragile right now. I'm not going to threaten you, but if Jordan receives anymore emotional setbacks right now, I think you'll have reason enough to punish yourself."

Woody spluttered incoherently in response, but had no sensible reply to make. With Woody's outburst effectively suspended, the two men returned to their previous silence, now sullen on Woody's part, until Jordan returned, dressed in street clothes and with her hair somewhat haphazardly pinned back.

"Thanks for the clothes, Nigel."

"My pleasure, love. If there's anything you need, phone, and either Bug or I will be at your service in a moment."

And with a set of abbreviated goodbyes, he was gone, leaving Jordan and Woody alone once more.

"So," she began, "I suppose we need some kind of plan."

"Plan?"

"I've never done any real detective legwork on my own, but I think we need some place to start if we're going to find out what happened that day."

"You were there. Do you remember anything?"

"Not much," she answered slowly. "It's all so hazy, and I'm not sure anymore what's real and what my nightmares have added."

"Just tell me anything you can think of. Even if it's wrong, it might give us a lead."

"I remember…" she paused, eyes glazing over as she sank into the world of memory, her voice taking on a clinical, emotionless tone. "I remember my uniform. The hem was coming out, and I remember it flapping around my legs when I walked. It was September. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't hot. Sunny, I guess. My friend, Kim, lived next door, and we walked home together. I left her at her driveway and then turned into mine. There used to be an oak tree there that blocked the entrance from view until you were almost to the door. I remember thinking that something was wrong when I saw that the door was open. It was the butler's day off, and I didn't know who else would leave the door open. My parents were never home at that time of the day, unless my mother had just gotten home from somewhere. I never knew where she went.

"I was scared to go inside. Something was different, and I didn't want to know what it was. Or at least I think I was scared. Maybe I wasn't scared then, but I think now that I should have been. I should have known that something was wrong. She was my mother. How could I not feel that something had happened to her?" Her voice broke then and she stopped, staring down at her tightly clasped hands.

"It's all right, Jordan," he reassured. "You were only ten years old. There was no way you could have suspected anything. We can stop now, if you want to."

"No. I have to do this, and if I stop now, I don't know if I'll be able to pick it up again."

"Okay. Try to stick to the facts, then; it might help. And stop if you need to."

She took a deep breath and plunged back into her narrative, voice less steady, fingers working violently at each other.

"I…I couldn't see when I first walked in. The hall was dark, and the first thing I saw was…paper. There were papers scattered everywhere. I thought my parents would think I had done it, so I bent down to pick them up, but then I noticed a…shoe, one of my mother's favorites, lying in the hall. I walked over to it and looked into the stairwell, and I saw her, on the floor. There was…there was blood everywhere. It wasn't hers. It couldn't be hers. But she wouldn't get up. I tried to wake her up. I shook her. I screamed at her. I screamed for my daddy, but he wouldn't come. He didn't come. Why won't he come?" By this point, her voice had reached a feverish pitch, and she had lost herself, subsumed again by the horrific scene. Recognizing this, Woody reached out to touch her arm, carefully, as if afraid she would break if he moved too quickly. She jumped, startled by the contact, and turned her anguish-filled eyes on him.

"It's okay. You're fine," he said soothingly. "You're here. It's over."

"I…I don't remember anymore," she stated alarmedly. "I…don't know what happened next. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wish I could help more. I'm so…useless. I should know more. I should. Why can't I remember?"

"It's fine. I don't know what I expected, making you relive this. I shouldn't have put you through it."

"Where do we start, now?" she asked, breathing in deeply and attempting to gather the tatters of normality back around her.

"You don't remember what was on the papers, do you?" he questioned.

"No."

"Then, I guess I could look into pulling the evidence, see what I can find out. I'd really like to talk to the detective in charge of the case."

"He retired about ten years ago. I think he's living in California now."

"Where can we go for information, then? Your father?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "I don't want him involved."

Feeling that this was not the best time to pursue the subject, Woody let the matter drop.

"Who else would know something?"

"What about Lieutenant Wilde? He knows everything."

"That's a thought. He might at least give us a place to start." He paused a moment, uncertain what to do about Jordan's presence, before beginning again with, "I guess I'm off to the precinct, then. I'll be back in a couple of hours, and I can take you to your rooms after that. Until then, umm…I have…books, somewhere. Under the bed, I think, and you're welcome to more coffee and toast." He looked around uncomfortably at his apartment, which now seemed to be wildly inadequate.

"I'm coming with you."

"Jordan…"

"I…don't want to be alone," she admitted ashamedly.

"All right, then."

* * *

Woody made his way, slowly and self-consciously, down the halls of the precinct. His cane was nothing new, but being back at the place where he used to wander freely, as an employee, whole and indestructible, always brought its presence acutely to mind. He hated knowing that he was being stared at, pitied by the men who were still capable of doing the jobs they had spent their lives working at. If the cane weren't enough, the fact that he carried a shopping bag in the other hand was enough to garner him stares from the people who didn't know his history. He smiled ruefully at the thought of how much more they would stare if they knew that the bag was full of flowers, which Jordan had insisted he stop to let her pick for Lieutenant Wilde, and had then forced him to carry inside for her, hidden inside the brown paper bag, as she was too well-known at the precinct to risk showing her face.

His progress was irksomely slow, as it seemed every employee of the Boston Police Department wanted to talk to him, to ask him what he had been up to since leaving and to kid him, in what they perceived to be a good natured way, about his "third leg," eyeing the bag with an interest borne of years of following evidence and suspicions. Woody endured their questions and their jokes, assuming his familiar jovial mask and returning the same tired jokes and punch lines unflappably back to them, but he was glad to see the crowds thinning out as he approached the building's deserted back corridors, glad to see the smoky cloud that meant he was nearing the end of his journey.

But when he finally reached Wilde's tiny, corner office, he was surprised to find that the door wouldn't open. The handle turned; it wasn't locked, but there seemed to be something blocking the entrance. Leaning his weight against it, he managed to push the door forward enough to slide through the opening, and in doing so nearly tripped over a pair of legs stretched in his path along the ground. Looking down, he saw the body of the shriveled old man, lying across the floor, barely able to move, eyes glassy and breathing shallow. Calling for help, Woody knelt next to him to assess the situation and provide what aid he could, dropping the bag as he did so, its contents spilling around him.

"Lieutenant Wilde! Lieutenant Wilde, can you hear me? What happened?"

Wilde stared blankly at him, unable to recognize the younger man or process what he was saying. He took a shuddering breath and began to cough, his head falling grotesquely to the side, his unblinking gaze landing on the wilting flowers scattered around them. Comprehension seemed to dawn in the old man's face, and for a moment he seemed to think clearly. With a tremendous effort, he began forcing out words.

"Jordan…" he rasped. "Tell Jordan…James. James…Horton. He's…"

But who or what James Horton was remained unanswered. The light that had so briefly illuminated the old man's face died, and with a final spasm, his lungs emptied themselves, breath mixing with blood trailing from desiccated lips. He was dead.

Woody stood, horrified. Dead bodies were something he had dealt with every day as a homicide detective, but to actually see someone die, to see the life flow from their body, to be the one entrusted with their final words, terrified him. He stepped blindly away from the corpse, memories of his father, dying unconscious in a hospital bed, dashing themselves against the inside of his mind. With a feeling of overwhelming relief, he finally perceived the sound of footsteps coming near. Attempting to pull himself together, he raised his eyes just in time to see Tom Malden, newly appointed Chief of Police, stepping through the doorway.

Malden's practiced gaze took in the situation: the body lying twisted on the floor, obviously dead, surrounded by flowers, guarded by a dazed former detective. Deciding to start with the room's still living occupant, he turned to Woody.

"Hoyt," he said, his businesslike tones jerking Woody back to reality, "what happened here?"

"I…I don't know, sir. I came in to…to visit, and he was just lying there. I called for help, but there was nothing I could do."

"Did he, ah, did he say anything?"

"No, sir. By then, he was too far gone."

"Very well then, Hoyt," Malden said, feigning sympathy for the other man. "Come along, and we'll take your statement. I'll see to it that a crew is sent here."

* * *

Time seemed to drag leadenly on as Woody sat in the interrogation room, reliving those moments in Wilde's office countless times, leaving out a few important details, as his mind screamed at him to run out of there as quickly as his unresponsive legs would carry him and find Jordan. She was outside alone, and someone obviously knew what she was trying to do. She wasn't safe, and it was his job to protect her.

He felt ready to burst with apprehension when they finally let him go, and this time as he walked back through the precinct's crowded halls, he didn't stop to chat, but sailed directly through the sea of bodies, like a knife thrower's dagger slicing the air. Finally reaching his car, he nearly collapsed with relief to see her sitting inside, alive and well, fingers drumming a bored rhythm against the dashboard.

Ramming himself into the driver's seat, he had the car started and speeding away before she had time to form a greeting. Not giving her a chance to speak, he plunged headlong into the conversation with a terse, "What exactly made you run away from home?"

"What did Wilde say? Did you learn anything?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"Wilde's dead. I think someone wanted to kill him before he could tell you something, and I need to know exactly what's going on. Why did you leave home, and how is Wilde connected?"

Jordan's face drained of color, and she sat back in her seat, stunned. "I…I have no idea. I left home because of Evelyn. She found something of my mother's, a locket I was keeping, and she exploded at me. I had no idea why it was so important. She blew it too far out of proportion for me to overlook it, and my father refused to listen to me, so I left."

"Do you still have the locket?"

"It's in my suitcase at your apartment. I've never opened it."

"Well, it looks we're about to."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.


	9. Children and Art

**A/N: **Hello again, gentle readers. I know; it's been a very long time. Unfortunately, I was set upon by writer's block and the Christmas season at the same time. Sorry, and I hope I can post more regularly in the future. Thanks so much for the reviews! They've been splendiferous!

Chapter 9 – Children and Art

1947

The locket was an old-fashioned, heavily engraved heart, held together by a rusty clasp. Not having the key, Woody worked carefully at the clasp with a lock pick, praying as he did so that it wouldn't break. Finally, the clasp gave way, and the locket creaked open on its rusty hinge. On one side sat a picture of a little girl with dark hair and large, serious eyes standing beside a woman with similar features and coloring, whom Woody guessed must have been Jordan and her mother, and on the other was a lock of reddish-brown hair, which proved more difficult to identify.

"Is this…yours?" he asked tentatively.

"No, I…it's not mine," she replied slowly, staring at the lock of hair.

"Could it have been your father's?" he continued to probe.

"I don't think so. Dad was blonde when I was a kid."

"Do you have any idea whose it could be?"

"None." She paused, still concentrating on the locket. "Well, maybe…no, none."

"So, we're back at square one, then," he sighed, beginning to despair over ever getting a break in the case.

"It looks that way. I suppose we could…hold on a second," she said, turning the locket over in her palm.

"What?"

Her fingers had begun working at the frame holding her picture in place.

"I think there's something behind here. It's…there."

The frame swung open, revealing a second compartment behind it, in which a tiny note had been concealed. Carefully unfolding it, Jordan began to read:

E,

I don't care what he thinks about you or your husband. You will not see him. Tell him whatever you have to, but get rid of him. Remember, you know exactly what will happen if he finds out. Think about your daughter, and your son. You want them safe, don't you?

T

"Her son?" Jordan asked, bewildered. "But, I didn't have a…she didn't have a son. She…she couldn't have."

"Jordan…," Woody attempted to interrupt.

"No," she continued, ignoring him. "She loved my father. She wouldn't have…"

"Jordan!" he interrupted more forcefully.

"What?" she snapped.

"Does the name James Horton mean anything to you?" he asked, starting to put the pieces together and not liking the picture that was emerging.

"No," she responded, nonplussed. "Why?"

"Wilde, his last words were, 'Tell Jordan, James. James Horton.'"

"I've never heard of him. Do you think that he…?"

"It's a possibility."

"But how do we…?" 

"I don't know. Maybe I could…"

"Good, and I'll…"

"Good," Woody concluded, pleased that they were returning to their old rhythm, though still wary of the Pandora's Box they were about to dive into.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this, though?" he asked.

"What choice do I have, now?"

"It's not too late to stop," he reasoned. "We could close the locket up, forget what we found inside it, and you could go back to your father's house. You could spare yourself a lot of grief."

"I have to try, Woody. Even if nothing comes of it, I owe her at least that much."

"All right, then," he said resignedly. "Let's track down James Horton."

And so, for the next few days, Woody pounded the pavement, putting in enough legwork to wear off the end of his cane, in search of the elusive James Horton. He ploughed through birth, death, and marriage certificates from the past forty years, visited what seemed like every establishment in Boston asking if anyone had heard of him, and even allowed Jordan to call in a few favors from her motley assortment of friends in the hope that they could turn up something on him, but so far they had come up empty handed.

One afternoon after a particularly boring session in the City Archives, Woody returned, disgruntled, to his office, to find Max Cavanaugh waiting for him. Taking in the man's less than pleased expression, Woody surmised that Max must have heard something about the new direction his investigation had taken. Settling himself into his desk, he decided to let Max start the conversation. For several minutes, or so it seemed to him, they sat in silence.

"Hoyt," Max finally began, "do you want to tell me exactly what you were doing at the precinct when Wilde was killed?"

Woody had trouble containing his sigh of relief that Max may not know anything beyond his presence at Wilde's murder.

"Well, sir," he began, "I…I was having lunch with a detective…Matt Seely, and I thought I'd stop in and say hello to Lt. Wilde while I was there. When I walked into his office, I…I found him dead. That's all, sir."

"And those flowers in Wilde's office, I suppose they were a coincidence?"

"No, sir, I…"

"Don't lie to me, Hoyt," he threatened. "Jordan was there, and I know you've seen her. Now, tell me where she is and why you never mentioned to me that you found her."

"I…I didn't find her, sir. She found me. She had heard that I was looking for her and came to my apartment a few days ago. I tried to convince her to go home, but she said she couldn't, that she was afraid. I decided that going along with her plans was better than losing contact with her altogether, so I let her talk me into going to see Lt. Wilde. Then, she…she left. She said she'd contact me again in a few days."

This seemed to convince Max, and he seemed at least marginally calmer as he said, "All right, Hoyt, but the next time she contacts you, I don't care what you have to do, you find her and you bring her home. Are we clear on this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Goodbye, Hoyt."

And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving Woody to wonder once again just how much trouble he and Jordan were inviting in. He was still sitting at his desk, staring absent-mindedly into space, when Lily entered the room.

"From the way that man stormed out of here," she began, "I'm guessing that must have been some discussion you two had."

"It was nothing, Lily. Let's just say he's not…entirely pleased with the way I'm handling his case."

"You're sure that's all it is? I don't want to pry, but you look a little winded. You're not in any trouble, are you?"

"No, Lily. I'm fine," he said tiredly. "It's just this Cavanaugh case has taken a spin I wasn't expecting."

"What's the problem?"

"It seems I'm searching for a man who doesn't exist."

"I once dated a fella like that. What's his name? I might know him."

"Have you ever heard of anyone by the name of James Horton?"

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Completely."

"We grew up together. If it's the same James Horton, he lived just down the block from me. I mean, he was a good bit older, but I still remember him. Weird kid. He used to set traps all around the neighborhood. I'm not sure what he did with the things he caught, but I don't think I would have liked to be one. I think his parents still live there."

"Lily," he exclaimed, struggling back into his hat and coat, "you're an angel! What was that address, again?"

The house Lily directed him to was one in a series of typical suburban houses, surrounded by tiny, well-groomed lawns in which happy children played noisily with one another. The Hortons' house seemed to have been one of them at one time, but in contrast to the pristine houses surrounding it, it seemed to have sagged with age and fatigue. Broken shutters hung loosely from dirty, cracked windows set in walls that may have been white when first painted, but the paint had all but disappeared. The house had no lawn, merely a bare plot of dirt in which a few browned plants lay resting. On the front steps stood a woman, as tired and dirty as the house itself, making a vain attempt to sweep the grime from the entryway.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but are you Mrs. Horton?"

"I am."

"I'm Detective Hoyt," he said, taking out his badge. "I was wondering if you could give me some information about your son, James."

"What's the boy done now?" she asked wearily.

"Nothing, that I know of. We're just trying to find out where he's living."

A spark ignited in her eyes for a moment as she asked suspiciously, "Did Cavanaugh send you?"

"No, ma'am. Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" She eyed him coldly.

"No. I'm actually here at the request of his daughter, Jordan."

"His daughter? So, old Emily wasn't too crazy to raise a daughter," she chuckled lowly, speaking mostly to herself before looking up to stare appraisingly at Woody.

"I figured someone'd come poking around soon enough. Come inside," she sighed, motioning vaguely at Woody as he followed her into the house's dim interior.

"James always was a queer boy," she said over her shoulder as she puttered about the house, rifling through the clutter that had taken over every available inch of space. "I always knew he'd get in trouble with the law one day."

"He's not in trouble with the law, Mrs. Horton. I'm a private investigator," Woody stated patiently before pausing. "Queer in what way?"

"Oh, you know. Always wandering off and getting in fights. Moody. Not surprising, really."

"Why not?" he asked casually.

"Well, the poor boy. He couldn't help it, could he?"

"No, I suppose not," Woody answered, growing increasingly confused.

"When you say that he couldn't help it," he continued, "Do you mean that there have been others in your family who were…queer?"

"Are you saying something against my family, young man?"

"No, no." He smiled disarmingly. "I just…wondered why you'd expect him to be moody."

"Oh, that. Well, after the accident, poor James was just never the same." Mrs. Horton seemed to be loosening up, glad to have someone to confide in.

"Accident?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yep. Almost drowned."

"How?"

"Who can remember after all these years?" Which was, in Woody's opinion, an odd remark for any mother to make, but Mrs. Horton continued, though haltingly, not wanting to lose her audience. "Some boys were…playing by the well out back when he was just a little thing. You know how boys are. Cruel sometimes. Anyway…they lowered James down to see how deep it was, then covered up the well. We didn't find him until all hours of the…ah, here it is!" She finished abruptly, holding up a crumpled piece of paper.

"I knew I had James' address somewhere. There you are, Mr. Hoyt. He moved down there a few years ago with his girlfriend. Said they were starting fresh." She handed him the paper, on which an address had been scrawled in a childish handwriting.

Woody returned home to find Jordan drinking from his milk jug, which she raised in toast upon seeing him. Ignoring her mock salute, Woody sailed directly into his latest news.

"Jordan," he asked excitedly, "have you ever been to Alabama?"


	10. Night Waltz

**A/N: **The Ale and Quail Club belongs to Preston Sturges. If you'd like to see them in action, check out the movie _The Palm Beach Story_. It's brilliant.

Happy reading!

Chapter 10 – Night Waltz

1947

The slow, steady sounds of the train were hypnotic, lulling its passengers into slumber. As the night drew herself ever more firmly around them, one by one, its occupants fell asleep, succumbing to the train's rhythmic lullaby as it traveled through the darkness. All along the train, lights were being extinguished and curtains drawn, but the occupants of Drawing Room G had no intention of going to sleep. Seated opposite each other, he in the room's only chair while she fidgeted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs like a child, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson stared at each other in awkward silence, a silence that had lasted since she had emerged from the bathroom wearing little more than a gauzy negligee.

"So," she said, breaking the silence, though the awkwardness remained. "It sounds like the Ale and Quail Club are settling in for the night."

The Ale and Quail Club were a group of men with too much time, too much money, and too much access to firearms en route to Alabama for a week of hunting, who had set up camp for the evening in the car behind the Wilsons. Currently, they were serenading the drowsing passengers with a drunkenly off-key rendering of "Sweet Adeline," accompanied by their dogs' howling and the occasional potshot at the conductor.

"I hope so," he replied. "One more chorus of 'Sweet Adeline,' and I'm going to take my gun and start putting them to sleep, myself." The silence continued for a few moments more before he continued with, "Mr. and Mrs. Wilson? Seriously, Jordan?"

"Well, you could have been my brother. How does the name Captain McGloo strike you?" She smirked knowingly at him.

"I seriously doubt that anyone would believe we're brother and sister….McGloo?"

"Wasn't that your mother's name?" she asked innocently.

"Her name was McGrew. M-C-G-R-E-W," he groused.

"Really? I remembered it as McGlue."

"Tell me again why we're posing as husband and wife?"

"Obviously, a husband and wife traveling together is much less suspicious than two complete strangers traveling together," she explained slowly, as if to a particularly dim-witted child. "And you call yourself a detective."

"We're not strangers."

"I doubt they'd have given us a room if we told them we were unmarried traveling companions."

"You could be right about that," he conceded. "So, where am I going to sleep?"

"Right here, of course."

He stared at her in shock, his long-buried Boy Scout revolting at such an enormous breach of propriety.

"I called the porter to make up the upper for me. He just hasn't made it here yet."

"Oh." He looked down again, feeling foolish.

That issue taken care of, Woody went back to staring at anything in the room that wasn't Jordan in a negligee. Silence reigned again in the room, broken intermittently by howls from the Ale and Quail dogs, who had been set free and were now being rounded up by any available train personnel. Finally, Jordan began another attempt at conversation, this time in a much lower voice.

"Do you…," she murmured, "do you think we'll be able to find him?"

"Honestly, I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, uncomfortable with this line of discussion. "We've got an address, though, and some background on him, which gives us a much better shot than we had before."

"You're right. I just…I guess I don't know what I'll do if we actually do find something out."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, all my life I've wanted to do this for my mother, but I've never really thought about what it would mean for me."

"I wouldn't worry about that yet. We may not find anything, and even if we do, there's no way now of knowing what it will mean. But if you want to know what I think," he said, "I think you'll be fine." He paused to glance up at her, wondering that the animosity he'd felt toward her for so many years had melted away without his noticing. He reached for her hand, holding it securely in his, marveling at the matching bands adorning their fingers, before continuing. "And even if you're not, I'll be here for you. You can depend on me, Jordan. You always could."

The words were neither romantic nor eloquent, but they were filled with something he hadn't been able to express in years: warmth. A warmth that seemed to unlock a dam inside him, setting loose a torrent of emotions that he'd come to think of himself as incapable of feeling. Suddenly, he remembered all that he had ever felt for this woman – the excitement of seeing her for the first time, the sheer, intoxicating joy of being in her presence, even the sympathy he felt for her past, a past that mirrored his own grief-filled childhood in so many ways.

For a moment, she seemed wary of his compassion, but then she looked up to meet his gaze, a curious expression on her face. Grasping his other hand, she said simply, "I know."

"Jordan, I know that I…"

But before he could finish, they were interrupted by a knock on the door, effectively breaking the enchantment winding around them. Both jumped back as if stung, hurrying to opposite ends of the compartment as the porter entered, smiling apologetically.

"Sorry I'm so late, ma'am, sir," he said, nodding to them each in turn. "Had to help round up those dogs before we set the compartment loose."

"Loose?" Woody asked curiously.

"Yep. The Ale and Quail Club'll be sitting by the side of the tracks until they dry out or until someone takes pity on 'em and picks 'em up."

Jordan let out a nervous burst of laughter at this, before moving aside to let the porter get on with his work. While he set about pulling down the tiny bed and outfitting it with sheets, pillows, and blankets, Jordan and Woody fidgeted restlessly in their respective corners, sneaking glances when they thought the other wasn't looking and turning away in embarrassment when caught.

Finally, the porter finished, and with a respectful salute at Woody's tip, he began to exit the room. Before he could leave, though, he turned with his hand on the door to ask, "Newlyweds, aren't you?"

Both blushed furiously at this thought, tripping over their words in search of a coherent response.

"I…we…that is, uh, I didn't think…we aren't…"

"I thought so. You can always tell with newlyweds, the way they look," he said sympathetically. "Well, have a good night." And with a knowing wink, he was gone.

"Well, that was…"

"…Awkward."

"To say the least."

They paused, smiling uncomfortably.

"Woody, I…" she began

"Jordan…" he began at the same time.

"I just wanted to say thanks," she paused, "thanks for being here with me."

"Anytime."

Gathering her by the shoulders, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight, Jordan."

"Goodnight."


End file.
